So Many Cruel Things
by miamam
Summary: Waiting for a nice word, craving for affection, starved for a hug, Sherlock was given none. What if thousand cruel things were done or said to Sherlock, when he was a boy? He would grow up eventually, cold, snapping at everyone, reserved, just as we know him. These are short stories about some things he experienced as a child, which changed his heart, his mind, his personality.
1. The Purple Heart

"You shouldn't draw it like this. Purple isn't nice. Rose is," said Rosalyn, six years old, to Sherlock, six and a half years old.

"But I like purple. I don't want it _rose_," sneered little Sherlock, while he coloured a Mother's Day greeting card for his mummy. There was a huge and a bit odd heart on it and Sherlock thought that it would be better done in his favourite colour, instead of dull rose.

"But it's wrong! It's like it was ill!" said Rosalyn's friend, Lili.

"It is not ill!" cried Sherlock, hiding his card under his elbows, chin up, scowling menacingly at those two insuferable girls.

"How did you draw your cards?" he asked and they both proudly produced their cards from their school bags, showing them to Sherlock.

Rosalyn's heart was quite nice shaped, coloured in sweet rose with flowers on it, while Lili's one was deep red with stars everywhere. Both girls wrote down their names and I-love-yous and Sherlock scowled a bit more.

"This is how it's supposed to look, Sherly," said Rosalyn and Sherlock had just enough. He hated to be called this stupid way, everyone knew it, but those two girls just behaved like they were someone special. He got angry.

"Well, you have a blunder down there, _Rosie_, can't you write even your name properly? Or is it _Rosaylyn_, really?" The girl looked startled at her card and blushed.

"And yours? Look at those stars, they are all... crooked, like they were splodges! It's awful."

"No it isn't! My mum will love it!" spat Lili. Rosalyn was looking at her own card ruefully and she sniffed.

"How can I fix it, Lil?" she sniffed again.

"You can't do anything, it will just look worse," muttered Sherlock.

"Shut it, Sherlock! Come, Rosie, let's just leave this awful Sherlock with his _awful_ and _ill_ heart." Both girls stood up, grabbing their things and leaving, Rosalyn was quietly sobbing now.

Other children packed their bags and left, until Sherlock was alone in the classroom with their teacher, Mrs. Timmons. She was writing down something in her notepad and looked at Sherlock from time to time, but didn't come to him.

Sherlock was finishing his card now, writing carefully his note for mummy: To my beloved mummy, from Sherlock.

The purple heart was improved now, encircled in blue, because he loved that colour as well.

"Are you finished, Sherlock? I have to leave, now."

"Yes, Mrs. Timmons," said Sherlock and packed his things in his bag.

"May I see your card?" Mrs. Timmons asked and Sherlock pressed his card to his chest, hiding the picture away. "Come on, I'd like to see it," she smiled and Sherlock hesitantly showed his card to her, waiting for the mockery.

Mrs. Timmons looked slightly surprised and then smiled again.

"Why, this is really beautiful, Sherlock. Quite extraordinary. I bet your mummy will like it very much," she gave him back the card and Sherlock beamed. If any adult says it is beautiful, it certainly must be so.

The Sunday morning, he went in his mummy's room, where she spent most of her time reading or working. Mycroft stood amidst the room, a little box in his hands.

"Hello, little brother," he said.

"Hello, My, is mummy at home?" asked Sherlock.

"She is, she told me to wait here, she will be here any minute," Mycroft replied. "What do you have for her?" he tilted his head to side.

Sherlock showed him his greeting card.

"Oh. Interesting," said Mycroft pensively and in that moment, Mrs. Holmes came in. She glanced at her older son, dismissing the younger instantly.

"What is it, Mycroft, dear?" she asked haughtily. Mycroft moved to her and gave her the box.

"Happy Mother's Day, mummy," she let him kiss her cheek and took the box, looking inside curiously.

"Mycroft! That's rather nice. Thank you," she said fondly and took out a small cake with a chocolate icing and a cherry on it. "We will share later, alright?" She loved sweets as well as Mycroft.

Mycroft grinned and left the room. Mrs. Holmes turned to her desk, putting her little cake back in the box again, when the telephone on her desk rang. She answered the call, when she noticed her younger son still staying in the room.

"One moment, please..." She covered the receiver. "Sherlock, what do you want?" she asked impaitently.

Sherlock straightened a bit and with his heart pounding madly in his chest, he came closer and gave his greeting card to mummy.

"I have a present for you as well. Happy Mother's Day," he said headlong and waited for her face brighten, as it had done with Mycroft before.

He waited, but...

His mother was looking at the card with a slight frown, then glanced at him.

"Why is it purple? And blue?" she asked bewilderedly.

"Because I love purple," Sherlock replied hesitantly.

"Oh." She smiled weakly and put it on her desk, right on top of a huge pile of various papers and forms, which were long forgotten. "Thank you," she said abruptly, turned around and resumed her call.

Sherlock's heart sank.

His card wasn't worth a kiss. Maybe it was truly awful after all.

He left his mummy's room and went to his own room, his pace slow, his shoulders slumped.

He decided he didn't like the Mother's Day at all.


	2. The Games

**2. The games**

There was a party at the end of the school year. It was especially made for the first years, but other children could come, too, and in the end there were hundreds of children, mostly with their parents as their guardians. However, Mycroft had to go not to enjoy an afternoon (he was a bit old among those children anyway), but because he had to take care of Sherlock.

The school grounds were parted to little stands, where various games or contests took place.

Sherlock didn't want to go, but he couldn't tell that to his parents, because they would ask him why, and he really didn't want to answer that question. He held Mycroft's hand and hoped that his older and much bigger brother would discourage all those bullies from the third grade, who liked to make a punching bag of Sherlock. He flinched a bit, when he saw them standing aloof, looking at him and his brother menacingly.

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, leading him towards a stand with a game with balloons, then asked him quietly, "So these were the mysterious boundary stones and the steps, where you tripped or fell so many times?"

Sherlock looked up startled, gaping silently at his brother. Mycroft frowned, looking ahead.

"How did you know?" asked Sherlock. Mycroft sighed.

"I know what it looks like when you are beaten. You are not any ruffian, little brother. And I have certain experiences, too."

Sherlock blinked.

"Did you tell daddy?"

Mycroft only looked at him with his eyebrows risen and didn't reply. Of course, their daddy. Sherlock blushed and didn't need to say more. Nor would he come to daddy, maybe because he could receive a lesson on how to fight back. And to really remember the lesson, he would get some sharp slaps, right before daddy left again, disappearing for a month or so, doing business elsewhere.

"I don't want to be here, My," said Sherlock lowly and his brother squeezed his hand.

"You have to face your enemies, Sherlock. And even if you can't fight them, you can stand straight and remember that you are far better than them. Don't be afraid, you have me here, and I won't leave you alone."

"I know," Sherlock replied and looked longingly towards the shooting-range, where there were pyramids of tins and children tried to shoot them down with soft balloons. "I think I would like to try that," he pointed with his finger and Mycroft smiled.

"Alright. Let's go, then."

Sherlock concentrated, biting his lower lip, aiming at the tins and threw his balloon at the top of one pyramid. One tin fell down and he turned around, beaming at Mycroft.

"Try the lowest line," he advised and Sherlock threw again, tumbling all the tins down.

"Well done, you! Now, come here and choose your prize," said the teacher standing beneath, supervising the shooting-range. Sherlock chose a chocolate bar and gave it to Mycroft.

"Here. There were only sweets and I don't like them," said Sherlock and Mycroft smirked. He knew that it was sort of thank you for the advice from Sherlock, but he hardly used the words, therefore he gave him the bar.

They tried several more stands and Sherlock enjoyed his afternoon after all, except for the last bit.

"My, My! It's Mike there, I know him, can I go to him?" Mycroft knew Sherlock knew many children here, but if he said something like this, it actually meant that the boy he was talking about was at least nice to him. He nodded and stood aloof, watching his brother talking to this Mike, who was smiling at him back. He sighed and looked around. There was a girl standing near one stall with sweets, glancing at him from time to time, smirking a bit when he held her gaze.

Looking at Sherlock and seeing he was quite fine with that sort of friend, he went to the girl for a little chat. She looked rather nice, with long brown hair and warm mischievous eyes, biting her lips. She must have been older than him, maybe round seventeen, but it didn't matter to him, nor did it to her, as it seemed.

"Hello," she greeted him and Mycroft leaned against the counter. "Did you come for something sweet?" she asked and Mycroft smiled broadly.

"Hello, Ms Sweet," he said with a smile and she laughed. "What are you offering here?" She looked at him quite saucily and leaned forward.

"It depends," she muttered.

Mycroft glanced back where Sherlock was still talking to Mike, and the boys were laughing now. Everything seemed ok, so he turned back to the young girl and dismissed him.

Sherlock was having really good time with Mike. Mike was quite easy-going, maybe a bit silly, but that was fine with Sherlock as long as he was getting on with him.

Mike's mum suddenly came to them and they needed to go home.

Sherlock was alone.

He looked around and saw Mycroft standing among few caravans, kissing a girl who was apparently older than him.

"Gross," he muttered and sighed. What should he do now? He definitely didn't want to interrupt their fine moment. He decided to try another competition, it will take him few minutes and then he could go back here and wait for Mycroft. Or think of something, how to make him go home.

There was a competition in finding a way out of a maze, drawn on an A3 sheet. It was perfect. Sherlock stood aside few children who had their own sheets before them with pictures heading down.

"At three you can turn your sheets and start to find your way out!" said the teacher loudly and the children took their felt tip pens and got ready. "One... Two... Three! Start!"

They turned the sheets and Sherlock frowned in concentration. He was a bit disappointed, it was so easy!

"Done!" he shouted and put off his felt tip. Other children weren't even half done yet, looking at him with mouths open.

"You cheat!" cried one of them.

"No, I don't," sneered Sherlock. "It was easy peasy! You were just slow."

"I don't believe you. Mr. Devon, he cheats!"

The teacher looked at Sherlock. "He can't, everyone has different type of maze, look," he pointed at the mazes and Sherlock grinned.

"Make him do another one!" said the little grievor acidly.

"What is your problem?" asked Sherlock in disbelief but the kid just huffed.

"Ok, if you don't mind, could you do another one, just to show us?" asked the teacher and Sherlock nodded.

They got him another sheet and all kids around watched as Sherlock turned the sheet around and within seconds found the way out.

The teacher gaped.

"That was truly amazing. Now, you see he didn't cheat, he was just really fast."

"I don't want the prize if it's why you were complaining, I just wanted to pass time. You have it," Sherlock told the kid who was constantly scowling at him.

The teacher smiled broadly. "That's very nice of you."

Sherlock glanced around then, looking for Mycroft, but he couldn't see him anywhere. He frowned, he didn't see him among the caravans either.

"Looking for your guardian, are we?" someone said and then a hand caught Sherlock's shoulder, pushing him sidelong. Sherlock was suddenly surrounded by the bully group of five boys.

"He's not even _close_," said another one and Sherlock shivered. The boys snickered. Sherlock tried to cast loose but another hand captured his other shoulder and squeezed. Sherlock clenched his jaw to not to hiss with pain. The boys took him behind those caravans, where stood an empty school gym, and pulled him inside. One of them stayed outside to watch.

"Let... Me go!" Sherlock thrashed, but one of the boys shoved him to the ground. Sherlock bare knees squeaked as they rubbed the floor and he gasped. And yet he knew it was the least painful moment in upcoming minutes.

He glared at those bullies.

Jon, Alexander, Michael and Douglas were standing over him, looking down with menace grins.

"Well, that was clever with that maze, you know. You have really clever head. But we don't like show offs. So we decided we'll make you less clever, at least for the summer," Douglas chuckled and then it started.

They kicked him hard; thighs, knees, back were like on fire. Sherlock cried but didn't make a sound, clenching his teeth really hard and he curled up, pressing his knees closer to his body.

He flinched when one of them grabbed his hair, tightening the grip, pulling him up to his knees until Sherlock screamed with pain.

"Not the face, mates," said Jon gravely and punched him in the stomach and then Sherlock decided that nothing mattered anymore and he wet his shorts. The boys stopped abruptly, looking down, where Sherlock's pee was leaking his shorts and they howled with laughter.

"Whatever he'll do when his brain is mushed up!" laughed Jon and the boys took that as an invitation to go on. The fists came, jabbing on Sherlock's kidneys; he tried to cover his head with his elbows, but Jon held his hands firmly and then, after a severe punch to his nape...

Sherlock blacked out.

He came round eventually, feeling dizzy. His head hurt a lot and when he moved he hissed with pain, his body ached like hell.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" came the soft voice of his brother and Sherlock blinked for a few times. He realized he lay on a bed, oddly smelling sheets covering his body and there was a quiet beep aside. He was in a hospital.

"Mummy?" he murmured.

"It's me, Mycroft," Mycroft answered ruefully and placed his hand gently over Sherlock's. "Mummy couldn't... She had to arrange something, I called her."

Sherlock suddenly remembered. The game, the bullying, the... wet... shorts... He felt so humiliated and broken. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, his eyes burning with sudden anger.

"You didn't come."

"I did. I was looking for you and then I..."

"You should have looked after me, not after that... Stupid... Girl!" he fumed and swallowed, he felt tears tingling in his eyes but he tried hard not to cry.

"I am sorry," Mycroft said quietly, caressing Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock broke away.

"You left me alone," he whispered and covered his face with his duvet, wiping his eyes. "Go away," he murmured.

"No, I have to stay here and –"

Sherlock lifted the duvet and shouted, "Go away, GO. _Away_!"

Mycroft stood up and left with a quiet, "I'll be right outside." He shut the door with a low click.

Sherlock punched his duvet and flinched because of a sharpish pain. He looked down at his hand, where was an IV. He watched it blankly for a while and then he felt really sleepy, so he lay down. Looking strangely at the IV, with an echo of the boys' laughter in his ears and numb feelings all over his body, he finally fell asleep.


	3. The scarecrow

**3. Scarecrow**

"Have you looked in the barn? He hides himself there, occasionally," said Mycroft. Pacing across the living room, frowning deeply, he pondered about where his brother could had disappeared. He called their neighbors and they promised to spread the word. But they didn't call back and so Mycroft started to be really nervous.

"Yes, sir, but he isn't there." the maid answered, anxiously pressing her little hands together.

"Don't tell me he just vaporized," hissed Mycroft, halting abruptly. He looked through a window down to the gardens, watching the peaceful greenery, the sand path leading to the pirate's treehouse hidden behind the trees. His scrutiny ceased on the pond, and he straightened up.

"Get some poles." He turned around and put on his jacket, striding to the door.

"Sir?" The maid followed him with confuse.

"We have to seek through the pond," he said gravely and the maid gasped, hand rising to cover her mouth. Mycroft ran out, breathing heavily. He wasn't used to move so quickly, he spent most of his time sitting; studying hard, he didn't have time nor will to do any sport. His breath was stinging in his throat, a strange feeling of blood in his lungs, but that was okay, it meant the body rebelled against him, wanting to calm down, to sit... Several hundreds of metres ahead was situated the pond, little yet quite deep even near the shores.

"Sher-lock..." he gasped pleadingly, running. His hip was aching now, but he didn't slow down. "_Sherlock_."

They had been alone at home, except for the maid and cook. Their mother was in Paris for some kind of meeting again and his father was God knew where... So Mycroft was in charge of their house and, of course, Sherlock, who turned eight years just a week ago. Mycroft, now fifteen, was used to such a responsibility, but a row with his brother in the morning, few hours of reading to calm himself down afterwards and then, when he finally searched for his little brother to discuss his school records... And he found out his brother was nowhere to find.

Finally reaching the pond, he looked over the surface. Sherlock couldn't swim, he just wasn't able to learn that simple skill. Mycroft hoped he hadn't drown. He glanced around, seeing the cook and maid running towards him with long poles with a hook at their ends. He kicked off his shoes and jumped in the freezing water, exclaiming in shock, and then he dove, blinking and trying to see anything in the dirty water full of weed. He resurfaced and took a deep breath and again he dove, swimming through, looking for anything what could indicate his brother was somewhere here...

He felt a spasm attacking his calves and he had to swim back. The maid was weeping, but searching through the water and the cook as well. The pond wasn't so large and it took them about an hour to finally give up and assume Sherlock wasn't there. Mycroft was shivering almost constantly. He swore under his breath and went back into the house to change his wet clothes.

The cook made him hot grog and brought it to Mycroft, who was pacing in the living room again.

"Thank you, James. Could you please call Mr. Abbington and ask him again, whether he knows anything new?"

"Yes, sir," James replied and left. He was back in five minutes.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Abbington said he had tried to call you... I think we were at the pond at the time... He said that his Mike went home and told him he had seen Sherlock near the Gregson's fields with a bunch of kids. About three hours ago."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"With a _bunch_ of _kids_," said Mycroft sceptically.

James nodded.

Mycroft considered going alone at first, but he had a bad feeling.

"Come with me, James."

"But sir, you should stay inside, I don't want to see you get ill."

"Well, I rather see Sherlock at home as well. I just don't think he's having a great time somewhere in the fields with another _kids_.Come on."

They left the house by feet, unfortunately both cars were gone and Mycroft sighed. So much exercise for a day, he'd be knackered once this is over.

Finally, when they approached the Gregson's fields, the wooden gate ajar. They passed through, followed the path and looked round.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted and nodded to James, to go deeper in the wheat field to the left. Mycroft went to the other side, where was a corn field.

"Mr. Holmes!" Mycroft heard James shouting and recede.

"Sherlock! Are you here?" Mycroft called again, but nobody answered.

Suddenly, he heard quiet giggling and a rustle from the right, few kids were running deeper in the corn and then it was quiet again.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's heart was pounding, he desperately hoped his little brother was alright.

He was almost at the end of the corn field, when he heard someone sneezing. It sounded like...

He got through the corn and there, at the edge of the field, stood a row of big scarecrows. They were taller than an average adult man, made of thick stakes.

"James! James! He's here!" He shouted and ran towards Sherock, who was tethered to one of the scarecrows. He was shivering violently, his clothes were gone... He was naked save the shorts.

He watched Mycroft approaching him with a calm and steady gaze. His cheeks were dirty and it was clear he had wept. His lean arms and legs were covered in mud.

"Sherlock! Are you alright?" Mycroft started to loosen the knots around his ankles and wrists. "Can you hear me? Are you alright?" he repeated his question and hugged the shivering little body tightly.

"I am-m n-not, am I, M-my?" Sherlock said quietly, his teeth rattling.

Mycroft pressed him closer to his chest, rubbing his back, then he let go of him for a moment, put off his coat and wrapped it round Sherlock's shoulders, hugged him again.

"Once we're at home and you're warm, we'll talk. You have to tell me who did this." Mycroft said sternly and lead him towards the path.

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes!"

"Over here, James!" called Mycroft, and soon they were on the path, all three of them, heading back home.

Sherlock was sneezing all the way home and when they were back, James went immediately into the kitchen to prepare a broth. Mycroft took Sherlock to his room, and made him to put on several layers of clothes before he got to bed. After a while, Sherlock finally stopped shivering and sighed. Mycroft watched him with a frown.

"Now, tell me. What happened."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and away, lips tight.

"Come on, Sherlock. I need to know." Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock looked in his eyes and Mycroft wondered a bit at how amazingly piercing gaze he could make.

"I just tried to be normal. And it went wrong."

Mycroft swallowed and rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired. He moved to Sherlock's bed and sat down.

"What do you mean that you _tried_ to be?" he queried. Sherlock looked at him steadily and now sneered. It was oddly sad to see a child his age look like that. Bitter. And dubious.

"You are perfectly aware that I am not like others. And I can see now that even if I try, I just couldn't... I wouldn't..." His chin trembled and he looked away, swallowing the tears which didn't come.

"And why do you try?" Mycroft asked quietly. Sherlock glared at him, but then, a bit confused, his face went blank and he scowled.

"Because I don't want to be –" he paused, mouth shut, looking down at his duvet.

"Alone? You don't want to be alone?" Mycroft said. Sherlock didn't reply, but his lips were a thin line now. That was an answer Mycroft needed.

"You don't have to belittle yourself to be anyone's friend. People who are worth being your friends will take you as you are. They won't make you change or make a fool of yourself."

"How can _you_ know, Mycroft? You don't have problems with making friends –"

"Because they are people who see I am from a powerful family. I am old enough to see they don't want to become friends with me. They just _need_ me, but not in that manner of speaking. Think about it. Now, I think we both could use a bit of sleep, so I'll leave to yourself. And then I'll come back and you will tell me who was responsible for that. Alright?"

Sherlock slowly nodded and lay down, sighing with content as he was getting warm. His face was sad and thoughtful but he didn't say anything else.

Mycroft left, shutting the door quietly and clenching his teeth angrily. Whoever they were, they _would_ pay for that.


	4. The Tenth Birthday

**A/N: **It took me a bit longer but here's another bit, finally. I wanted to show Sherlock's parents like more difficult people, who don't understand how gravely their behavior influence their sons. Nobody's just evil or good, everybody has odd bits and dark bits as well.

The former applies mainly to Sherlock's mother, the latter mostly to his father, who turns up in this chapter.

**4. The Tenth Birthday**

Knocking.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?" the maid asked and came in. Sherlock was laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering, how on earth he could avoid the stupid birthday party. It was his tenth birthday today and barring his uncle Arthur and aunt Bella, he really didn't want to see anyone.

"I know it's still a bit early but you'd better get up. I made you a cocoa, come on, until it's still warm." She winked, absolutely unconcerned by Sherlock's frown, and crossed the room to draw the curtains back. It was lovely day outside and Sherlock hated it already.

"I'd rather have coffee," he said abruptly. The maid turned around, quite surprised.

"Coffee? But you never drink coffee, Sherlock."

"I'm about to start. I'm ten, after all. Mummy's been drinking coffee since she was ten, I heard her say that." It wasn't true, but he was sure the maid wouldn't verify that.

"Alright. I'll make you coffee then. Now get dressed, for now something casual will do, and come down. Everyone will be here in two hours or so." She left.

Sherlock sat up, huffed a bit and slowly he went to his bathroom to brush his teeth. He got dressed and headed downstairs, when he heard his mother speaking with someone else down in the living room. The door was ajar.

His mother giggled a bit – drunk already, what a surprise. It meant his father wasn't at home yet, Sherlock deduced. – and then she whispered rather loudly, "You see, that was pretty something!" She sighed dramatically. "This stuff is excellent. Thank you, Bella." Her sister was here, obviously. Sherlock started to descend the stairs again, it seemed they weren't talking about anything interesting. But then...

"Oh, Bella, I really _hate_ it. I hate him." His mother hissed. "I _really_ want to just pack my things and disappear, you know..."

Sherlock ceased again, listening carefully.

"Don't say that, Viola. It was your choice and you must endure it. For sake of the boys, at least." Said her sister.

"Don't start with that again! For the sake of the boys! Oh God..." A glass clinked sharply, as his mother put it down. "Mycroft is practically adult. He's been behaving like an adult since his thirteen. And Sherlock..." She sighed deeply. "Sherlock... is ten today. ...Bella?"

"No, I think you've had too much already." More clinking, his aunt was clearly putting away whatever they'd been drinking this morning.

"Bella?" his mother wasn't complaining, it was a better day, then. If she was a bit grumpy today, she would never let her sister to put an alcohol away. "Bella, I think I can't do that," she sniffed. Sherlock was leaning forward now, trying to catch anything his mother said.

"He's ten now, do you see? It all happened so fast, I can't... I just don't know... He will be adult soon, as well as Mycroft, and then they'll both leave..."

Sherlock frowned. He quite couldn't recognize his mother in this sniveling creature. His mother was very cold very often and now she was contradicting everything... No. Don't make conclusions, Sherlock, not yet.

"Now, now, Viola. Don't tell me you have sudden mother instincts, sister. You've been more than cruel to both of them. To Sherlock particularly." His aunt replied sharply and then there was silence.

"I know," Viola answered quietly. "But I had to. They have to be strong, both, and they couldn't have become independent if I mollycoddled them."

More silence. And then clapping of heels, steady steps, his aunt was pacing across the living room vividly.

"I think I'm going to be _sick_. You are a horrible person. Every time I'm here I see how you behave, and don't tell me now it is for their own well-being. The boys are clearly depressed, but you don't even observe, how well they hide it. Deep. Down."

Sherlock frowned. Depressed? That was a bit exaggerated. He'd never be depressed. Mycroft, maybe, he was a good actor to hide anything he was thinking about, indeed, and his face was mostly blank, recently, so he could be. Maybe. But why would Sherlock care? Nobody in this freaking family cares about anyone.

"So don't start with all that _caring_, sister. You're just drunk and you behave like a cow, right now."

Sherlock's brow rose. That was pretty harsh even for his aunt. She was always kind and quiet.

"Bella, I mean it. I'm not so drunk to not know what I'm saying. I regret it. I love them both, but..."

"Oh and _now_ you say you love them. Don't do that, Viola, or I swear that –"

While talking, Sherlock's aunt was striding towards the door and Sherlock froze. He clearly eavesdropped something he shouldn't have heard and now, standing in the middle of the stairs, he was going to be caught.

But his aunt only shut the door and then Sherlock couldn't hear anything more than a quiet muttering behind the door.

He exhaled and slowly descended, but then he saw Mycroft standing in the end of the corridor, looking strangely lost; Sherlock couldn't have seen him before from his position on the stairs.

Mycroft looked up at his younger brother, and with a strange gaze, full of something Sherlock couldn't recognize, he turned around and left, the door clicking almost silently behind him.

He had been eavesdropping as well, as it seemed. Sherlock smirked and headed for the kitchen.

He sat down at the counter and at first smelled, then sipped his coffee. It was quite bitter and awful, he put a suger in it, and then another one. Tolerable, now.

He mused about what he had heard before, drinking the coffee absentmindedly. It was so strange to hear his mother talking like that. But she seemed to be honest, whether it was odd or not.

And then Mycroft. Surely he had heard something more, even before Sherlock appeared up the stairs?

Suddenly the door into the kitchen opened and his uncle Arthur, Bella's husband, came in.

"Sherlock! Good morning, boy," he patted Sherlock's shoulder gently and Sherlock smiled.

"Are you looking forward to your presents?" Arthur winked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not really, uncle. I think I know what I'll get."

"Really? And is that a bad thing, then?"

"Well, at least I can prepare for the embarrasing ones," muttered Sherlock and Arthur laughed. Sherlock snickered.

"Oh I hope my present won't be among them!" He patted him again and left.

Sherlock finished his coffee – feeling excited already – and headed for his room. He hated waiting. Especially when this waiting was for his father, whom he saw few times a year. Thrilling, rueful, unhappy – these were his prevalent feelings because of waiting for father.

He ended in the bathroom again, looking miserably into the mirror. He really tried to comb his hair in something more representative, but it was useless. He threw the comb in the drawer and got his tie. He already could tie it in several styles, but decided he should be reserved today – as to celebrate his fathers' arrival. He smirked nervously and tried to calm himself.

Yes, it was utterly ridiculous to even try to look better, steadier, bigger... More mature.

On the other hand he had to try! It was his father and in spite of all the distance Sherlock knew his father loved him. In his own, very strange way.

He remembered what his mother had said the morning and shook his head. He could feel whatever bizarre feelings his father was hiding and yet he wasn't so sure about mummy.

He went to his room and pulled on a vinous waistcoat and a jacket and stood before big mirror beside his wardrobe.

A knock on his door again, but Sherlock barely noticed.

"You look nice," said Mycroft and Sherlock glanced at him before looking back in the mirror.

"It's useless, though. He won't notice I tried, because he doesn't know I don't look like that generally."

Mycroft closed the door and came closer to his younger brother. He knew Sherlock tried hard to arouse father's notice, because he desperately wanted his approval. He would do anything and yet it wasn't enough to their father, ever. Mycroft stopped trying when he realized that. At least he told it to himself he had stopped. Even though he was often nervous about father's presence as well.

"Sherlock, I think you should just stay as you are, really. I had told you this before –"

"Yes, yes, you had," Sherlock murmured and brushed his shoulder as to wipe off a mote. He turned around, looking into his older brother's eyes steadily. "So. Is he here, then?"

Mycroft nodded.

"He's with mummy and others down in the living room."

"Alright. Let's go." Sherlock sighed heavily.

"It's your birthday, after all, try not to be so hung up. I'm sure there will be good things among the awkward ones."

Sherlock stared at him dubiously and they went down together.

He certainly could deduce most of his presents before tearing the wrapping paper off, and tried to smile politely, although Mycroft saw through and often rolled his eyes at those lame attempts of acting.

It was really unexpected when his father rose and passed over to Sherlock with a small package in his hand. Sherlock was utterly baffled, looking at his father, who was smirking slightly.

He had _never_ given any present to Sherlock. Both parents just payed for something together (well, it was mostly a present chosen by Mycroft and payed by parents, as Sherlock had found out). So he gaped a bit before remembering his manners and thanking out loud.

Mycroft was leaning forward, quite nervous. He knew Sherlock will remember this day just because of this moment, and he will delete other events of the day, probably. It didn't matter whether it would be a nice present or a very tasteless or cruel one. So it was extremely important that it would be something pleasant.

He glanced at his father who was watching Mycroft steadily.

Sherlock was a bit trembling, and he took his time to unwrap the present neatly.

It was an envelope and inside was...

"An air ticket!" Sherlock exclaimed in disbelief. "To America?" He stared at others and mostly at his father with his mouth ajar. It seemed his mummy was surprised as well, she blinked quickly and finished her glass of wine.

Mycroft was scowling, there was something wrong with that. There must be something wrong.

"Can I look, Sherlock?" he asked his brother hesitantly and Sherlock showed him, beaming happily. The others recovered from their awe and started to congratulate Sherlock.

"It isn't only a ticket, Sherlock. Look in that envelope properly," said Mr. Holmes.

Sherlock frowned a bit but obeyed, and he pulled out another piece of paper. He unfolded it and started reading, at the end he looked at his father again, totally dazed.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked nervously.

"It's a permit to one of CSI's department, in New York. I can go there and watch how they actually work, and I will be allowed to go with forensics to crime scenes –"

"_What?_" his mummy stood up abruptly. "Absolutely not!"

"I'd rather see you elsewhere than at any crime scene, Sherlock." Mycroft was throwing daggers at his father now, knowing exactly what was this about.

But Sherlock heard none of that. He was absolutely in awe, looking up to his father, who was smiling back at him, with an odd spark in his eyes.

"It's your tenth birthday. I know you are very mature, Sherlock, you're not a child anymore, and I wanted to give you something special."

Mycroft took a deep breath. "Father, I think this is not a good idea." Mr. Holmes turned to his older son, sliding with his haughty gaze up and down, slowly, deducing him, until Mycroft's heart was pounding madly. But he couldn't let this happen. He couldn't just allow to send Sherlock away, somewhere to the bloody USA and its wild world, where Sherlock would be just mocked even more than here, with his posh accent and his genius mind, where he wouldn't have anyone at all to count on, where he'd just be vulnerable and on his own...

"I'm not going to discuss it with you, of all people. I insist Sherlock go and enjoy his present."

There was silence.

Sherlock was still looking at his father like he was a god, mummy sat down again, looking really pale, Mycroft was furious but not able to do anything with that. The others, including Bella and Arthur, who were looking quite uncomfortable, looked anywhere but at the honoree and his father.

"You're leaving in a week, I recommend you pack with forethought. Now I have to leave, I'm afraid."

"Thank you, father," Sherlock blurted out before blushing. "But couldn't you just stay a little longer? For a cake, at least?" His last question was uttered really quietly, because Mr. Holmes sr. had just glared at him and left promptly.

Sherlock felt a pang of regret, but then he remembered the awesome birthday present. He didn't notice how Mycroft and his mummy exchanged an unnerved look.

This was his best birthday, ever.


End file.
